


may i help you

by someotherstorm (rumbrave)



Category: Justified
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:57:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumbrave/pseuds/someotherstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day after they hook up for the first time, Tim learns a few things about Raylan -- that he's intense, likes to leave voice mail messages, and may have a fetish for horrifying customer service associates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	may i help you

When Tim finally checks his cell phone at seven-twenty that evening in the Lexington SWAT team headquarters, he has six voicemail messages. Every single one of them is from Raylan. 

_Six._

The first one is from eight-fifty-two that morning.

“Hey, Tim. It’s Raylan. Look, you weren’t at work this morning and I was...y’know. Checking. To make sure it wasn’t anything I did. Like how I sucked your cock and had you moaning beneath me and -- oh, hi, a grande peppermint mocha, and yeah, sure, whipped cream, why not? Anyway, TIm, just checking because I thought we had that whole conversation about how things wouldn’t be weird since we slept together, et cetera, et cetera and thanks, yeah, you have a nice day, ma’am. So, Tim? Let me know, because how am I supposed to concentrate if I think you’re at home freaking out? Okay? Bye.” 

The next is from twelve-twenty-three. 

“Tim? I know you were pretending to be drunk last night when you were all, _Hey, Raylan, let’s go back to your place and fuck like rabbits_ , because you are really bad at pretending to be drunk. Bad enough that I noticed, which is pretty bad. Or you’re really good at pretending to get off with my mouth on your -- yeah, I’ll have a number three, barbeque chips and a Coke. I got a coupon for that somewhere, hang on. Tim? Call me back or I’ll kick you in the stomach. Bye.” 

The next two are a variation on the same theme, with Raylan both cajoling him, threatening him, and probably horrifying some poor customer service person. 

The fifth one appears to be a mistake, because all he hears is a sound like someone dropping the phone, and Raylan cursing in the background. 

The final message is from an hour ago. Tim listens to twice, alternately turned on and amused by Raylan’s brusque, clearly offended tone of voice. 

“I’m a U.S. Goddamn Marshal, Tim, and I always get my fucking man. And in this case, I’m going to get this one -- you -- and pin you down and make you tell me why you’re acting so goddamn weird. If you think I won’t, then you don’t know me. I have resources, Tim. _Resources._ ” There’s a pause. “Also, beer. But I may drink it all before you get here.” 

Tim is still dressed in his SWAT gear, and his rifle isn’t cleaned or put away, but he just takes himself to his car and drives home to his apartment. He thinks about calling Raylan on the way there, but this will probably be more interesting if he just shows up. 

* * *  
“Oh, look, there you are. Where the fuck have you been?” Raylan is leaning against Tim’s door, hat tipped low on his brow, a six-pack of Coors on the ground. 

“Coors? _Coors_? That’s the beer I’m supposed to be all worried you’re gonna drink and not leave me any?”

“Well I ain’t so sure you’re worth somethin’ fancier, what the hell do you want? A microbrew?” 

“I was thinking at least a Bud Light,” Tim murmurs, and walks over to open his door. Raylan stands there, all loom-and-glower, making it as difficult as possible for Tim to get into his apartment. 

“Where the fuck were you today? I’m trying to be nice, call you and make sure you’re not being weird, and you can’t even answer?” 

Tim tosses his keys on the table and leans his rifle case against the wall, then crosses the room to flip the light on. “Wow, Raylan. I really didn’t take you for the type to leave _six messages_.”

“For your information, it was _five_ messages. That one was a mistake when I dropped my phone...” Raylan trails off as light floods the small apartment. “What the fuck are you wearing?” 

“Body armor,” Tim answers, opening the cabinet and pulling out a bottle of Jack Daniels. He pours himself a short glass and raises it at Raylan, who’s standing across the apartment and staring like he’s never seen him before. “I had to go help out on a Lexington SWAT call. Their sniper is in the hospital with appendicitis.” 

“You had to snipe a guy with appendicitis?”

“What?” Tim laughs, sips at the whiskey and shakes his head. “You’ve got horrible listening skills, anybody ever told you that? Look, I’m fine, I’m not freaked out. At all. I got a few medals in emotional unavailability, don’t worry...seriously, why are you staring at me like that? Never seen a guy in body armor before?” 

“That your rifle?” 

There’s something in Raylan’s voice that gets him hot way more than the brief sip of whiskey. “If your next question is _or are you happy to see me_ , you can let yourself out.” 

“Show me.” 

Tim pauses with the glass raised halfway to his mouth, which is suddenly dry. “You want to see my...rifle.” 

“That’s right.” Raylan stalks across his apartment like he’s trying to audition for an Animal Planet show. “I want you to show me your rifle.” 

Tim puts his glass down, fingers moving to undo the uncomfortable straps of his body armor. “Can I at least take this off, first?”

“No.” 

“You’re kind of a freak, Givens. You know that?” Tim watches Raylan as he gets closer, and for the first time he’s able to remember last night; going back to Raylan’s apartment with him (or going upstairs, same thing), making out in the hallway because they couldn’t stop long enough for Raylan to get the door open, and then when they were finally inside -- Raylan all over him with his hands and his mouth, his burning hot eyes, shoving Tim down and telling him _hold on and keep up, Gutterson._

And then the wake-up call from Art, asking him to fill in for the Lexington SWAT team. Trying to wake Raylan up, which didn’t work, and thinking about writing a note, which he didn’t do. 

Raylan just shrugs and grins at him, all charm. “Sure. Oh, and Tim?” 

“Yeah?” 

Raylan grabs him and shoves him back against the wall, and while the impact is softened by the body armor it’s no less hot. “If I’m gonna stay over you are going to have to get some better whiskey. Fuck, son, you’re in _Kentucky_. At least get some Evan Williams.”

Raylan kisses him before Tim can tell him to bring over his own whiskey. Maybe he’ll leave Raylan a message -- after all, he owes him a few. 

* * *   
Raylan makes Tim show him his rifle -- literally, he sits on the floor, cross-legged and drinking a Coors while Tim takes it apart and cleans it. He’s demonstrated this before countless times, but no one’s ever watched him like they want to pounce on him and fuck him into the floor when he’s finished. 

Which is exactly what Raylan does, once Tim expertly gets the last piece of the rifle stored safely away. The body armor is mostly off by this point, but he’s still wearing enough to keep the carpet from giving him rugburn. 

That is, at least until Raylan strips the rest of it from him and pins Tim to the ground, sucking him off nice and slow. The carpet could be catching fire and branding itself into his skin by that point, and Tim wouldn’t care.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving,” Tim tells him, later, drinking a warm Coors and watching as Raylan wanders around Tim’s apartment, barefoot and shirtless, the top button of his jeans unbuttoned. “I didn’t realize you were so... _sensitive_.” 

“Yeah, well, you don’t really know a guy until you roll around on the floor with him. Why the fuck can’t I find the number for Pizza Hut? You got a phone book around here?”

“Um. Sure. It’s called _Google_ , old man.” Tim grins up at him, feeling cocky and vaguely rug-burned and really, really good. 

Raylan raises both eyebrows at him. 

“Or there’s a menu on the fridge.” Tim is quiet as Raylan dials, then leans back and yawns. “You can stay over, if you want. If I have to go shoot someone, I’ll leave a note this time. That calm your anxious nerves any?” 

“It’s just fucking _manners_ , Tim, that’s all. You blow a guy and he ain’t there when you wake up, you start questioning your skills and it’s not like I’ve sucked cock in a while...oh, hi, do you still have that ‘any pizza for ten dollars’ deal?”

“I think you have a fetish,” Tim tells him, and laughs. 

Raylan just winks at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Never Leave Harlan comment fic meme](http://nvrleaveharlan.livejournal.com/19505.html#t228145). Thanks to Norgbelulah for the read over, and answering important questions about Raylan Givens' possible Starbucks preferences >>


End file.
